


this burden

by Koto



Series: brave the storm for its lightning [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Blood and Violence, Developing Friendship, Gen, Pre-Relationship, eirlana lavellan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-15
Updated: 2017-05-15
Packaged: 2018-10-31 14:53:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10901643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Koto/pseuds/Koto
Summary: Rattled by the fighting and death at the crossroads, Eirlana seeks both distraction and advice from Solas.





	this burden

Sunlight, low and slicing through thin clouds, gilded the spring taiga, affording the Hinterlands a radiance at odds with the rebellions’ chaos.

Naked and shivering, Eirlana strode into the pool and nearly leaped back out. Instead, she waded in up to her waist and scrubbed herself with the cloth she held. The dried blood washed away in moments, yet its feeling remained, a tightness to her skin. She scrubbed harder. The anchor thrummed, sending shivers along her bones.

Eventually, she stumbled out, dried, and dressed.

Damp hair bound in a bun, she stepped through the ferns to the cliff. From her vantage point, the sun remained in the sky, yet twilight draped over the valley below, turning trees into spectres and campfires into targets for bandits. Leagues away, Redcliffe’s castle peeked over the hills.

She sat, pulled her tools from her satchel, and began grinding elfroot into a mush. Tomorrow, she’d deliver a batch of potions to the corporal. Even with her standing offer to heal whenever they happened to pass through, it wouldn’t be enough.

_Until a healer turns up and agrees to work in a war zone, nothing will —_

Gleaming with sunlight, a sword cut the thought off.

She flinched, crumpling roots. Too clear, too recent to be shoved aside, the memory bulled forward — stumbling away from the weapon, stammering, a flash of lightning, and the templar bursting, spraying blood. Another — a mage preparing to cast on Varric, a fade-step, then her own staff-blade in the elf’s gut.

The anchor’s thrumming sped up, keeping time with her heartbeat.

Bile pushing up her throat, she leaned forward and pressed her forehead against the ground. She tried to think of something else, the astrariums or those skulls on pedestals, the sound of a cracking skull —

Hands shaking, she set her mortar aside, then crawled forward and vomited over the edge. Her throat burned, making her eyes water. When nothing else came up, she collapsed to the ground, shuddering. Thinking of nothing, she stared at the stars.

After a minute, the nausea faded a little. Moving slowly, she wiped her tears away and crawled back to her tools.

Dusk had fallen without her notice, shrouding the cliff in shadows. Silently reciting elfroot’s uses to keep her thoughts occupied, she cast a dim mage-light and picked up her mortar again.

Footsteps and a voice calling, “Herald?”

She straightened out of her slouch. “Over here.”

A smudge of green and grey in her peripheral, Solas stepped through the ferns. “You have been gone a while. Are you well?”

She flushed with heat, afraid he’d heard her retching, and squashed another root with her pestle. “Yes, I’m fine.”

“…I’ll leave you be.”

“Solas, wait,” she blurted, then blanked on what to say. “Would, would you tell me about Elvhenan?”

“Am I not intruding?”

“No, you’re not,” she said, still staring at her hands. “I’m just worn out. But I’d love to listen to you. If you’re not busy.”

“Of course.” He sat down next to her. “What do you know of Halamshiral?”

Gathering her thoughts, she bottled the elfroot mush and repacked her tools. “It was founded a thousand years ago, after the war with the Imperium, after Andraste’s children gave us the Dales, and after The Long Walk. It was the capital of the Dales and its cultural centre for three hundred years. In the second Exalted March, the city and nation fell to Orlais.”

Solas hummed. “An accurate history, if lacking any meat.”

“Everything else is speculation,” she sighed. “The Chantry was thorough in its sacking.”

“Precisely. The Dalish strive to remember Halamshiral, but Halamshiral was merely a fumbling attempt to recreate a forgotten land.”

“Arlathan.”

“Elvhenan’s greatest city,” he said, voice turning wistful. “Place of magic and beauty, lost to time.”

“You almost sound like you’ve seen it.”

“I have.”

Eirlana stared at him. _He’s —_ “Creators, you’ve seen it? In the Beyond? You’ve been to Arlathan’s forest?”

“Once.” His gaze fell, something that looked like sorrow on his face. “A long time ago.”

Her heart thumped, loud in her chest. “So?”

He looked up, meeting her eyes, and smiled faintly. “We hear stories of them living in trees and imagine wooden ramps or Dalish aravels. Imagine instead spires of crystal twining through the branches. Palaces floating among the clouds. Imagine beings who lived forever, for whom magic was as natural as breathing. That is what was lost.”

“Wait. Wait. The myth about immortality is true?”

“In a sense; their bodies did not fail with the passage of time, so long as they did not remain in uthenera for centuries.” He paused, head tilting. “You do not believe me.”

“I…Fen'Harel's bloody teeth." She shook her head, stunned, and took a deep breath. The cold air made her nose ache. "I never believed in the myth,” she corrected, “not entirely. I thought there was a grain of truth to it, but immortality…never seemed probable."

“And why is that?”

“Our bodies aren’t that durable. Flesh scratches, tears, bruises easily. Bones break if you fall and land wrong. Organs deteriorate noticeably within decades. For the ancient elves to have been immortal, their bodies would’ve necessarily been remarkably different from ours. That or magically sustained, which would require a ridiculous amount of energy.”

“As would suspending buildings in the sky.”

She rolled her lips. “Assuming the loss of immortality is fact, maybe our access to the Beyond was reduced at some point.”

“That is possible.” After a beat, he said, “There is much more about Elvhenan to tell, far too much for one conversation. Is there anything else you would like to ask?”

She began to say ‘healing magic,’ to ask after what he’d gleaned from his studies and how she could improve her technique, but stopped. Her skin itched, as if the blood remained. A sprawl of bodies lingered in her vision. “You’re a healer, right?” At his nod, she looked down at her hands again, fiddling with her sylvanwood ring. “How do you separate the you that heals from the you that kills?”

Silence answered. She clenched her fists, skin hot, nausea building again. Fenedhis _, I shouldn’t have asked —_

“I don’t suppose I do, anymore.”

She looked up, startled. Something must’ve shown on her face, for his expression softened.

“The fighting we participated in troubles you.”

“I’m not,” she swallowed, “accustomed to killing. Or battle.”

“Considering your position as First, I am not surprised.”

She laughed, a huff of breath. “Perhaps you should be.” He raised an eyebrow and she looked out over the valley, darkened to ink, before continuing. “Every First-in-training learns to command and fight.”

“Your people have warleaders, correct? Is the defence of your clans not their responsibility?”

She shook her head. “Not entirely. Warparties are often away, dealing with threats that venture into our territory. A Keeper is always with their clan and must always be ready to defend it. So, battle is among the many things we study.”

“Without practical training to complement the theoretical, you cannot expect yourself to perform as a soldier would.”

She shot him a look. “I’m not. I only expect to hold my own.”

“The more experience you gain, the more you will adjust. For now, I suggest you hold a position to the rear, support from a distance, and pay attention to what both your allies and opponents are doing. And,” he added, voice turning stern, “do not take unnecessary risks.”

“Implying I’ve already taken one?”

“Your defence of Master Tethras.”

“Since when is saving Varric an unnecessary risk?”

“It is the manner in which you did that is problem.”

“If I’d cast from that distance, the mage could’ve easily deflected my spell at Varric.”

“Deflected spells rarely cause more than superficial harm.”

“Meaning the risk remains that they could cause more,” she snapped, sharper than intended. His eyes narrowed, irritation showing in the crinkles between his brows. She suppressed a sigh and twisted to face him. “Solas, my duty as a First is to protect my people. I recognize that, as the one in possession of the anchor, I’m vital to the Inquisition’s success, but I will never put a friend in danger if it can be avoided.”

“That is admirable,” he said, expression smoothing, “yet if you cannot guard yourself in battle, your resolve is irrelevant.”

She nodded. “Then I’ll practice. And I promise to be mindful of the risks I take.”

For several breaths, he merely held her gaze, remaining silent. “Tell me, why did you choose to become a healer?”

His words pulled another memory up — laughter and iron rasping, a sword blurring, a storm of spelled lightning, blood flowing through her weak spells and shaky hands, and a limp body heavy on her back. She tensed slightly, perhaps slightly enough to go unnoticed. “I realized that my lightning alone wasn’t enough to protect.” Her voice did not waver. She did not drop her eyes.

He hummed. “I believe you have the answer to your question.”

“Pardon?”

“You wish to safeguard the lives of those around you. To succeed you must accept that doing so will inevitably result in blood on your hands, that of those you kill and of those you cannot protect.”

Just for a moment, she closed her eyes, embarrassed to have hoped for a different answer. He’d spoken with his usual detached tone, and yet, from his mouth, the words weighed true. Deshanna had once given her the same answer, with the same weight in her voice. _I must accept this. I am First of Lavellan and I do. I do._ Heavy and unyielding, Solas’ words settled over her heart. “You speak from experience.”

Again, a shadow passed over his face. “I do.”

“ _Ma serannas_ ,” she said calmly, despite not feeling calm at all. “I appreciate your honesty. And guidance.”

“You are welcome. You carry a heavy mantle and a heavier responsibility, as the Herald of Andraste. I would ease that burden, however I could,” he replied, with all the solemnity of an oath.

_Which, oddly enough, it sounded like._

His gaze left hers and wandered to the ground. “The hour grows late. We should return to camp, Herald, and prepare for tomorrow.”

“Alright.” She walked with him through the ferns, lengthening her strides to keep pace. Lighting the way, her mage-light hovered between them. “Solas,” she said, spotting the campfire’s glow ahead, “may I ask that you don’t call me ‘Herald?’”

“You did not ask the same of Seeker Pentaghast,” he replied, not accusingly.

“Cassandra is Andrastian. You aren’t, unless I’m mistaken.”

“No, you are correct. However, there is still the matter of decorum.”

“I know. Only ‘Herald’ in public. Josephine lectured that into me after the first mishap.”

“Very well. What would you have me call you?”

“Just ‘Eirlana.’”

“As you wish.”


End file.
